


FEELING THREATENED

by Kikoiku



Series: HOME ALONE [3]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Angst, Creepypasta, F/M, Gore, Graphic Depiction of Animal Abuse, Graphic Depiction of Blood, Graphic Description of Corpses, Graphic depiction of mutilation, Horror, Inspired by..., Isolation, POV Second Person, Paranoia, Run and Go, Stalking, Threats of Violence, flight, mention of murder, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-15
Updated: 2020-04-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:55:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,851
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23663479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kikoiku/pseuds/Kikoiku
Summary: It has been a couple tough weeks on the road, running from one place to another,motel to motel, country to country - but he's never far away, bringing murder andmayhem with him wherever you go.You begin to question if you'll ever be able to escape.An Original Work inspired by a Creepypasta found on creepypasta.com.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Series: HOME ALONE [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1681237





	FEELING THREATENED

You're sitting on a comfortably arranged bed in a small room above everything else – not your bed, though, arms around your knees, making yourself as small as possible.  
You couldn't stand your own house anymore.

It's been two month now, two month of running and hiding. Two months since your home was covered in bloody messages, covered in fateful threats.  
You woke up that morning, having barely slept for three hours. Breathing in your boyfriend's scent you noticed his grip getting tighter around you as he woke up.  
He felt safe and warm and you notice how your room feels cold, which is strange since you left the heater on the night before.  
“Don't look”, he whispered in your ear and your blood ran cold, because you never heard that tone in his voice before. Despite his protest you turned in his arms and you wanted to scream, but you couldn't as your eyes wandered about your room. There was blood on the floor and blood on the walls. A dead animal which seemed to be a cat once hung from your doorframe, a pile that looked vaguely like intestines lying underneath it. There was a trail leading to the hall outside and you knew that your bedroom wasn't the end of it. There was a message on your wardrobe, almost too perfect to be made by human hands.

_Should've checked under your bed, darling._

Your hands started to tremble and haven't really stopped ever since. Your boyfriend had let go of you, climbed over you and stepped into a puddle of blood – it would've been hard not to.  
And you knew he wanted you to stay in bed, to crouch to the part closest to the wall, to hide behind all the covers you own until he told you it was safe. But you knew you wouldn't feel safe, no matter what he said. He had looked under the bed after he had gotten up and even though there was nothing there than even more blood you couldn't shake the feeling of filthy eyes on you.  
So you went after him.  
Your feet touched the ground just as his silhouette disappeared around the corner and it took everything to not rush after him, taking a grip on his T-shirt, never letting go. You didn't think he would hurt you with your boyfriend in the house – he treasured his sanity too much.

_Can you be so sure about that?_

Your boyfriend had told you that his ( _former?_ ) best friend had been a jealous, murderous rat from the get-go, never wanting to share him with anyone.  
It's what got him arrested in the end.

The blood on the floor was cold against your feet, colder than you expected. You didn't really know why. The liquid felt adhesive, stuck your feet to the ground.  
In a way it was more disgusting than the carcass hanging from your doorframe. As you left the room you made sure to duck your head as far as possible, desperately avoiding to touch the the small body – far too small to be a fully grown being.  
The first thing you noticed was the stench of something rotten. It hadn't reached your bedroom yet, but it was overwhelming your senses and nearly made you vomit. A look at your boyfriend, who had his arm pressed to his mouth and you know he nearly did, too.  
Just as you thought, there were more intestines scattered around the floor, almost like a work of art, every piece thoughtfully arranged. It could've been beautiful if it hadn't been as grotesque. It was more blood than you ever wanted to see in your life and you couldn't help but wonder whose blood this was and your stomach protested painfully, almost.  
You tried not to think about it again.  
As you walk down the floor, there were scratches along the walls, as if a beast had drawn his claws along them and you asked yourself, how none of the two of you had been woken up at the sound it surely had made.  
You didn't want to ask yourself what else you didn't notice.

You walked down the stairs and had to grab the railing – otherwise your legs would have given up under you and you didn't need another trouble to add to this mess.  
There were torn up clothes on the ground, accompanied by disfigured photos and neatly cut out articles of crimes you think he has commited. Your stomach twisted once again.  
You did not dare to look at them.  
You joined your boyfriend at the front door and you exhale with a shaky breath. The mosaic-glass that once so beautifully decorated nearly the whole door was crushed to pieces. There were goosebumps all over your body (that didn't come from the cold air streaming in through the cracks) as you read the note hanging on the doorhandle.

_I'm never really gone._

You had to look away to keep yourself from screaming. Your eyes flickered to your boyfriend's face who grit his teeth in more than plain anger and his eyes were darker than you'd ever seen them.  
For the first time in a long time he scared you.  
He stomped off in fury, to your kitchen, into your backyard. You stood frozen in place, couldn't quiet bring yourself to move but he started shouting words you couldn't hear so you followed him. You had to stop in your tracks, however, grabbing the edge of the wall in order to get some foothold, at least. Tears were filling your eyes, because there was yet another message and your house stopped feeling like a home completely, the feeling replaced by something dark, something dreading.

_I will steal your happiness._

_Because you stole mine._ , you finished the words in your head that you feel have not been spoken. You might have whispered them, too, but you didn't know anymore what's real and what's not.  
And you wanted to know what was going on outside, because there was shouting and cursing, but you couldn't bring yourself to go any further, because your knees felt like jelly and there were bloody footprints in the snow that were not entirely your boyfriend's. His voice was clear as a bell as he screamed profanities, screamed his name, the word coming out as a fierce threat again and again and again.  
“You will not take this from me!”, you heard him scream in agony and there was a desperation in his voice that scared you, for it sounded as if he needed to convince himself that you would be okay.

After entering the kitchen once again he closed the doors carefully – you couldn't help but notice that with the front door in its current status it was to no use, anyway. He rushed you upstairs to pack what you could, then drove you away as fast as he could. The next few days had been a daze, one went over into the next, into the next, into the next. You couldn't tell them apart, at this point.

Now you're sitting in a barely lit room, the only source of light the bedside lamp on the desk on the opposite side of the room. There's portraits on the walls that you were observing for the last two hours or so, just to keep your mind focused on something else than the sounds of the storm outside. You've been here for about three weeks now, had finally gotten some well earned days of rest, of peace and you could've almost thought that you were free now, that you could be happy with your boyfriend.  
But this morning there was blood on the walls outside and someone had laid a dead bird in front of the door and you knew you were not safe.  
He had found you in the lighthouse at the end of the world – it dawns on you that he would find you anywhere. Maybe even when you were separated, when your boyfriend was a thousand miles away, because he would still love you and you would still be a threat.  
And your boyfriend knows, too, you realize, for today he had taken up the kind of hunt that he had stopped for you years ago and you can only hope that he won't fall back into the pit, fall back into the rush of murder, falling more in love with the adrenaline than you.  
And it breaks your heart to know that he's aware, too, and that he still took the risk.  
_If the world was flat_ , you think, _he would've pushed me over the edge, just to keep me safe.  
_There is a storm raging outside, that drives waves against the coast that seem to whisper a soft song of bittersweet endings. The ocean that you can see outside the windows looks wicked, fierce, beautiful, terrifying. Rain is crashing against the windows, encouraged by the gusts of wind that howl through the night like angry wolves.  
Your look sails through the room – you cannot stand to look at the portraits any longer, they make you feel like being watched and that you had enough of for the past few months. You carefully watch the door, hoping that it will keep any bad outside, but with all that has happened you highly doubt it. There's two more of them – one in the middle, one at the very bottom of the building – but they don't secure you. They make you anxious.  
_Trapped._ , there's a faint echo in your head that accompanied you since the very beginning. You try to push it away, but it has been getting louder over the weeks. You desperately want your boyfriend by your side, want him to hold you, to protect you. There's a faint feeling in the back of your head, something that creeps its way into your heart, gnawing and taking roots.  
There's hatred building up inside of you – hatred for his choice of friends, hatred for his absence, hatred for your helplessness, hatred for yourself.

There's a sound way down at the entrance and you hope you misheard, because there was thunder in the moment and your nerves are on edge and you're paranoid since day one but then there is another one, much, much closer and much faster than you're comfortable with.  
Your heart whispers that it might be your boyfriend, for he is the only other person with a key, but he wouldn't try to be as quiet as the intruder is and he said he wouldn't be back unless the other one's dead and he wouldn't dare to step in front of you covered in blood – not after all you've been through.  
And your heart stops, because it shouldn't be this way. You shouldn't have been found here, shouldn't even have to run. You get up, carefully approaching the door. There's noise on the other side – scratching, ruttling – and you just know that it can't be your boyfriend. He wouldn't take as long to get in, not with a key.  
A whimper escapes your mouth.

The door clicks.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys!
> 
> Thanks for reading the third part of  
> this work, there's one more to go, so  
> stay tuned!
> 
> (Feedback is always highly appreciated!)


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